Tea Lights

We’ll make it real loud.
4 years, we’ll barely speak,
and you’ve got a husband now.
I have Waxahatchee creek
and you used to come here with me

All the tea lights
we never lit
are melting into their plastic bag
collecting the rain
that falls once a year

But it’s really better until I learn how
to gracefully let someone in and back out.
But I won’t worry about it right now.

I’m lighting a candle for us
remembering the gravel stuck in my tights
remembering licorice
blindfolds
and curry growing cold in its styrofoam bowl

I’ll write you letters and I’ll write you songs
and you will be endlessly distracting and then
it falls flat onto paper again

All the tea lights
we never lit
are turning the pillow to the cold side
(and so am I)
(I hope you’re warm tonight)

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